


i don't know why (but i do)

by rhodeybear



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - Fandom, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, POV Second Person, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, but just to be safe yknow, it's been a while since i've written something, so i don't know what to put here tbh, this is also a weird sort of fic so!, this is my first time writing like this please go easy on me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhodeybear/pseuds/rhodeybear
Summary: Not once have you swallowed a butterfly, but why do you feel bloated?Then, you remember: the first time you've said his name, you've swallowed one.There is this fluttering in your stomach that spreads its way to your chest, and it gets harder to breathe every time you see him.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19





	i don't know why (but i do)

You didn't mean to, but you swallow a butterfly the first time you uttered his name. 

It buzzes low in your stomach; lone and light as you relish in the state of being bloated. You figure it isn't much, but whenever the other man turns to smile at you, the feeling comes back, and you figure this feeling isn't that bad to get used to. 

Oh, you just don't know how utterly _fucked_ you are. 

•••

It is autumn, but despite the seemingly cool weather you're supposed to have, you can feel the beads of sweat that form on your forehead like a crown as you trudge through the hallways brimming with other students. It is packed, it is loud, and you absolutely _hate_ it. You'd really rather have skipped on any orientation class you're supposed to attend: imagine an auditorium jam-packed with every other kid from your major and honestly? You're better off not seeing any of the obnoxious shitheads. 

The only thing, however, that remotely tempts you to join is the idea of fresh cold drinks and an air-conditioned room. Who can say no to that, especially on a hot day such as this? 

You see him, there and then, in the middle of the so-called battlefield. Smiling, grinning, laughing all too loudly as he's friendly with the other students. You brush it off, figures he's just some kid who has a nice face and you can't really be arsed to deal with it. 

After the orientation, though, you see him heading your way. With soft footsteps amidst the raucous ones that stomp their way outside. He wriggles against other students, pushes them off if need be, or he'll politely excuse himself even if you know that there's no use for that. He makes his way to you almost as if he was caught in a magnetic trance. You feel your eyes widen, throat going dry as he catches you when you clamp your lips shut, something unusual even as he smiles sunlight at you. 

He acts as if this is nothing, that anxiety and helplessness were something normal and can be solved through friendliness and authentic support. He helps you _up_ , and _up_ , and _up_. 

And for the first time in years, you feel like soaring. 

•••

You don't expect it, not after that failure of a first meeting. If there's a word you can think to match him, you can never settle for one word. _Captivating_ is one, _charming_ is another, _amiable_ , _handsome_ , _elegant_ , _enthusiastic_. The words you think to describe him increases the more you get to know him. You sneak into each other's dorms, breaking dorm rules, exchanging hushed whispers underneath blankets and debating over formulas. 

Sometimes, there'll be no arguments, no debates. On good nights, underneath a starry sky, you'll begin to exchange _what-ifs_ and _what-could've-beens_. The smoothness of his voice soothes the demons in your head and soon enough, you drift off to sleep. 

(Oh, but honey, you miss the way he stares at you longingly as you lay your weary head on his shoulder. There is something akin to yearning in those eyes, but he soon brushes it off with a sigh as he looks at the stars. No, no, he doesn't remember the _what-ifs_ and _what-could've-beens_ , instead, he puts you to sleep on his bed as he lays down on the floor, and you will feel everlasting _guilt_ for it throughout the coming years.)

This becomes a habit, sneaking to each other's rooms every night. Talking away throughout the night, and waking up to an empty room because you've overslept. He reprimands you for it, and you've made a dozen promises about keeping track of class that you don't really intend on keeping. 

Because _the truth is_ , you're starting to feel how you'd exchange every boring professor for those eyes of his. How it glimmers in the dark, or how it twinkles when you both come up with something mischievous. 

You soon learn that you're both geniuses. He never regards himself as one, but you see it in the way he thinks, in the way his habits manifest itself in the form of inventing or sketching away at new ideas or simply in the way of how he is excellent at keeping secrets and how he doesn't want you to be bothered with it. He reasons that no one wants to be burdened with such emotional baggage, and he's right for a while, until he's not. 

Recklessness and rebelliousness pound in your being, the chains of being held down roughly tugged down and challenged. You’ve been told that you were never good with any authority figure, but you know deep down, that that's not _exactly_ true. You've found someone you can trust with all your soul, and you know that he trusts you back. 

That night, you both got in trouble because you were too inattentive and impetuous: your head in the clouds as you think of ways of surprising your friend. Sure enough, being in the dean's office and getting separated is a good enough way of stopping that nightly meeting. 

(At least, temporarily. Sure, they've increased security, but you've also found different and creative ways to slip off to where he is, waiting.) 

When you make your way to his room, he beams at you. Big enough to make you grin back, and warm enough that it contends with the sun. 

You make it a point to impress him every time you drop by.

•••

It's the feeling of falling, gravity enrapturing and letting it do it's work that's completely intoxicating. You fall, and fall, and fall, just as Icarus did when he flew too close to the sun. 

But this time, the sun seemed to have grown arms and hands, and he catches you each time you fall. 

The concern in his eyes isn't something that can be erased so easily. The discontentment apparent in the way his voice trembles, a stark contrast in the way you remember it: confident, easy certainty and obnoxious at times. 

You say his name like it's a prayer, chanting it over and over again as he brushes a hand on your forehead to wipe away the sweat that's formed there. You swallow a butterfly each time you've uttered his name, and by now, your stomach is buzzing: full of the butterflies you were so keen on catching. 

He calls your name, and you don't know if you're imagining the desperation that edged in his voice. You don't know, you don't know. All you know is closing your eyes, and letting gravity take its effect. The butterflies in your stomach lulls you through it, even when he calls you again and again and again. 

•••

Home feels different once you've come back to it. There are ghosts living in the walls, skeletons hidden in the closet and monsters out in the open. A wailing woman dressed in white tries her best to protect you from the beast, an old man together with his wife takes you in as their son and the beast remains a beast. 

The beast, after all, keeps a vial of elixir with him every where else he goes. He is rotten, obsessed and greedy enough to not even notice you. 

Nothing's changed, yet again, nothing ever does in this house. The loneliness creeps like vines on the wall, twisting itself around your neck. It strangles lightly, as if testing the waters, before it enters you and kills off the butterflies you try so hard to protect. The insecurity joins in, together with the sadness. It kills the butterflies off, one by one. 

A phone rings faintly in the distance. You follow it like a moth to an open flame, and there you see his name on the screen. You answer it quickly, and his voice engulfs your being. Soon enough, you can breathe once more. Smiling shakily as you press the phone closer to your ear, to your chest, where the butterflies seemed to have multiplied without noticing at all. 

Every day and night, you call each other. He makes it a habit to talk to you every day you're caged in that vast labyrinth you call home, and every day you find yourself eager enough to listen to his voice: like fish to water, you need him to breathe, to keep the demons at bay. 

The wailing woman makes it a point to tell you endearing things, affection so openly out there yet you don't miss the way her eyes flicker away, hiding secrets stored away in her chest. She laments as she did when you were younger, back when you asked her to run away with you. Even if you still ask her the same today, she will simply chuckle as if you aren't serious, and tell you how silly and childish you're being. 

Like you, you recognise the chains on her neck that keeps her down. You seek to liberate her, but when asked if you can do it for yourself, you can hardly do it. The sins that aren't your own burdens itself onto your back, and you know that you deserve all this suffering. 

You realise there and then, that you and the wailing woman aren't so different after all. 

_What is home_? You find yourself asking him late one night, when the clouds have covered the moon and there's nothing but darkness surrounding you. _Home is where the heart is_. He answers back so casually, and it's there that the butterflies begin buzzing low in your stomach again. Filling you once more even when you haven't eaten proper food for days now. 

There are two things you find out that night: this home is merely a house, with ghosts living in it. And: you find out that home is not just a structure, but a person too. You think to yourself later: _you are my home_. 

•••

Years in that university, you've experienced the feeling of falling. This time, however, it comes frequently. Is this what Icarus felt, over and again? 

A warm hand is on your back, helping you through emptying your stomach as you continue to sob through it. You are _broken_ , you are _alone_ , you are _nothing_. It keeps on coming and coming until you lay down on the bathroom floor, sobbing yourself to sleep. 

You hear a voice call your name, soft and sweet. You think the voice belongs to the wailing woman, but it just belongs to _him_ . You remember that she is gone, along with the gentle old man and his wife, and you remember that you are _so_ , _so alone_. 

A voice reminds you that you aren't, but you still think otherwise. The self-loathing you feel burns it's way through your throat, and hazes the way you think. It's all foggy, and you're hardly even aware that you call his name again and again, clutching his wrist in a desperate attempt because you think he might leave too. 

The butterflies in your stomach grows and multiplies, it moves its' way upwards until it blocks your airways and you're forced to throw it all up once more. There are wretched cries drifting in the air, echoing in the empty stall. It sounds pathetic, upsetting and just about disturbing that you're filled with the urge to tell whoever it was to shut up. Until he hushes you softly, brushing your hair away from your face and wiping it clean that you realised that pitiful sounds is coming from _you_.

It continues then, and it's just uncontrollable at this point that you're expecting him to be fed up with your ass and leave you there. But he stays, a stable and consistent presence in your life, and it makes things a little bit lighter. 

Later, when you're done crying, he will continue wiping your face of vomit. He will mumble affectionate words as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He will crack a joke, hold your hand, and help you to his dorm room. The man knows how much you dislike sleeping alone, how the dark consumes you and leaves you to the worse of your thoughts, and he knows that being held keeps the demons at shore. 

•••

With those calloused fingers, you start working on a new invention. He says it isn't a healthy coping mechanism, but it falls on deaf ears. You work and sleep inside the lab, rinse-repeat with each day that you're focused on this project. You tell him that this will _blow his brains out_ , and he gives you a small smile even as he shakes his head. You tell him it's better than anything anyone's ever done before, and it's groundbreaking. He tells you "I expect to see it then." before closing the door of the lab. 

Needless to say, that was the last time you've properly conversed or even seen each other. You get sucked in your work that you forget about him, forget about the man that leaves you food or coffee whenever you forget to make one yourself, forget about the friend who's stuck with you all throughout. The work, however, makes a heavy toll on your mental health and you're left reminiscing memories of an old couple who cared for you like their own son. There's guilt tracing over your fingertips each time you code, every single wiring that you connect all comes back to them. If only you spent more time with them, then you won't be in this situation at all. 

(You drown yourself in work to quell those thoughts, hardly paying attention to your surrounding and the way your best friend perceives you with worry. Hell, you don't even hear the way he reprimands you.)

Just A Rather Very Intelligent System was born, then. Through your sleepless nights and hard work, JARVIS was recreated and it gives your friend mixed emotions. You see how proud he is of you, how curious he is of this AI you've managed to create yet he is wary. Cautious, as he watches JARVIS greet him with the voice of your former butler. You notice then, that this might not be healthy at all. But you don't really have a healthy lifestyle to begin with, so fuck it. 

You take his wrist lightly, tugging him to come with you in front of the machine and he joins you. Albeit, vigilant as ever as you begin introducing JARVIS to your friend. When you hear JARVIS say his name, you feel like you've swallowed another butterfly, and it flutters in your stomach. It rises to your chest, and you feel like it's getting more difficult to breathe but you carry on with a smile: two of your favourite people in the world stand before you. 

For the first time in months, you feel pure elation as you see them converse. But you cannot ignore the taste of copper in your mouth, and the way the butterflies emerge from your throat. How it escapes your lips and slowly fill the room. 

You only wish that you've made JARVIS earlier, that you've met him earlier, to see them together. To feel this warmth, the contentment of just basking in it. Oh, how you wish this moment would've gone longer, but the butterflies pouring from your lips tells you that time is not your friend. It has been ticking ever since you have seen his face, and heard his voice. Because under the dim lights of the laboratory, you see the beauty of this man, and the warmth he carries within him so effortlessly. And it gets so difficult to breathe when he looks like this: comfortable, alluring yet so soft as he talks to JARVIS. 

The word _beloved_ repeats itself in your head, like a broken record. But it's one that you don't mind hearing over and over again as you say his name one last time. He turns to you, eyes gentle as the moonlight that makes its' way through pristine glass, his countenance youthful and sunkissed, and his lips form a smile that you've always regarded as _home_.

He has been with you through the joys and the sorrows, has seen you opened your rib cage and expose yourself. He didn't even bat an eye, as he carefully takes the butterfly from between your lungs. 

You think to yourself: it's worth it, in the end. 

•••

**Author's Note:**

> title is by clarence "frogman" henry.  
> the summary and the entire plot are something i thought of while listening to [ sa'yo by munimuni.](https://open.spotify.com/track/19qvp23a0iXjzS72nqOi8u?si=UMNd8F7dRSG2LBMMoUEruA)  
> i confess that this sounds all rushed but the butterflies are more symbolic of tony's growing feelings for rhodey and it gets overwhelming. like i said, it's weird. i also made this when i just woke up today so pleathe dfjndnfkdjn have mercy on me  
>   
> thank you to toni for beta-ing this fic! without you, this wouldve been catastrophic 💛  
>   
> leave some kudos/comments/concrit.  
> come yell at me on my 


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